


when the way is dark

by ApprenticeofDoyle



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Awkward!Geralt, Book/Game Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence and Gore, Canonical Character Death, F/F, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Geralt's mouth, M/M, Major Spoilers for The Witcher 3, Moral Ambiguity, Romance, Vampire Culture, blood and wine dlc, casefic? kinda, ciri is the bisexual we all deserve, geralt plays the damsel lmao, here have some dettlaff, in which i nitpick canon, regis is not as subtle as he thinks he is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-01-05 16:04:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12193149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApprenticeofDoyle/pseuds/ApprenticeofDoyle
Summary: “Asked you once whose side you’d choose...if it came down to me or him. Said you’d stand with me. Well. This is me returning the favor.” Geralt’s mouth twitched in the ghost of a smile. “Not a hard choice, to be honest. Can’t imagine the Duchess brewing mandrake hooch half as good as yours.”When Geralt spares the Beast of Beauclair, it sets off a lethal chain reaction in the duchy of Toussaint that no one could have anticipated. As secrets are revealed and blood begins to spill, Geralt reunites with Regis to stop the real beasts stalking the fair lands of Toussaint-- and in the process, discovers exactly what he's been missing, walking all those years on the Path alone.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> \--story title insp: "Stand By Me", by Ben E. King. I find Florence + the Machine's cover to be particularly haunting.
> 
> Hello, everyone ;) Long time, no write. I've finally had the time to piece together a story that really stirs me up, and the reason behind that is basically Regis. what a fucking great character. i love him. i stumbled onto this lovely rare ship in the desire for more regis content, and the rest is history.
> 
> Really though, I've been playing the Witcher and devouring the book series in equal measure, and had to do something with all of these /feelings/ I have for the characters, Geralt and Regis in particular. If you haven't played the game, I highly recommend it, it's easily the best game I've ever played in my entire life. The series is excellent as well! But beware: here lies major spoilers for the books, the Wild Hunt, and its amazingly in-depth add-on Blood and Wine, a dlc so deep it is a game within itself.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt spares Dettlaff and relieves Regis of a terrible choice.

**chapter one**

 

Geralt watched as Dettlaff’s fallen form twitched, bleeding limbs seething on the earth, stitching themselves back together. He moved forward, silver blade held at his side with aching swordarm, to separate Dettlaff further- uneager to fight the higher vampire again so soon, when he’d barely managed to fell him the first time. He took a halting step closer, but stopped when a pale, clawed hand landed on shoulder.

“Don’t,” Regis said, and his voice was hoarse. “I will handle it.” The injured vampire stepped before Geralt, towards Dettlaff’s writhing, sundered form with a slightly unsteady gait.

“Regis,” Geralt started, because, Regis couldn’t mean-

“ _Go,_ ” Regis growled, shoving at Geralt’s shoulder, but not with the strength or anger Geralt knew him capable of. Beneath the beast still vibrating in the vampire’s voice, there was heartbreak. There was a moment where Geralt considered listening to his friend: contemplated walking away and leaving Regis to the murder of his friend and kin. But the sound of Regis’s voice, it made up Geralt’s mind almost immediately.

“No,” he said, and Regis quickly turned to him, face twisting in grief and anger.

“Do not make this any more difficult than it must be, Geralt,” Regis ordered lowly, voice on the edge of a deep, resigned suffering. It was something Geralt realized he could not abide.

“Not going anywhere. Not gonna let you kill him, Regis. He’s your friend.”

“I must,” Regis said, and the anger dissipated in his voice to leave it hollow. His proud shoulders slumped, dragged down by what Geralt could only call despair. “He is responsible for so many innocent deaths. He- he is my friend, but he must be stopped. I cannot stand by and watch him kill again, even if it hurts me to act as I should.”

Geralt met Regis’s eyes. They shone like obsidian in the moonlight. He did not know if higher vampires could cry-- had never seen a higher vampire brought close to tears before-- but he imagined that there was no greater expression of anguish for vampires than the look in Regis’s eyes, now.

The sight yawned wretchedly in Geralt's gut.

His gaze flickered once to the slowly healing form at their feet, and resisted a sigh. Shit. He's really going to do this. He looked back at Regis, whose head was turned towards Dettlaff with his eyes closed, as if he could not stand to see his friend there. Or worse, imagine doing what he had resolved to do. Or maybe, behind his eyelids, Regis was envisioning just that.

Geralt has felt that turmoil. Resolution to do the greater good, even when it damned everything else.

Shit. Yeah, he's really going to do this. “Could..." Geralt started, slowing when Regis's eyes opened and meet his, black stones shining in the night. "Could you convince him, maybe? To stop his vendetta, if you had the time? Could you keep him away from Toussaint?”

Regis blinked at him, the pain on his face sliding into confusion.  “I- I’m not entirely certain-”

“Regis. You got to him the first time. Could you try again?” Geralt asked, leadingly, meeting his gaze. Regis’s eyes widened.

“But the duchess,” Regis started, face already lifting in a hope that cast aside any of Geralt’s lingering reservations.

“Can be convinced that the problem’s been dealt with. I’ll tell them Dettlaff’s dead, and leave everything else out of it. The duchy doesn’t know anything about higher vampires except what I’ve told them. Can easily tell them the death of one leaves no trace to speak of.” He looked at Dettlaff, whose once halved form had now joined almost completely together. “Take him, quickly. Contact me whenever you have him under control.”

“Geralt,” Regis said. His friend was staring at him in disbelief. Geralt didn't know entirely how to feel about that. “Why? He- he is-”

“Your friend,” Geralt interrupted. “Asked you once whose side you’d choose...if it came down to me or him. Said you’d stand with me. Well. This is me returning the favor.” Geralt’s mouth twitched in the ghost of a smile. “Not a hard choice, to be honest. Can’t imagine the Duchess brewing mandrake hooch half as good as yours.”

Regis blinked at him, expression briefly, perilously vulnerable. He moved forward so quickly an untrained man would have startled, drawing close to clasp the witcher’s shoulder in a strong embrace too swift to reciprocate. “Thank you, Geralt,” he whispered, gratitude drawing his voice breathy.

And in a blink of an eye, he was gone in a wisp of midnight fog, leaving Geralt standing alone in the empty field, staring at the black blood-stained grass where Dettlaff lay moments before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It killed me that I had to choose between Dettlaff and Syanna. Personally, I find them both guilty (seriously, how many peasants actually died in the attack on Beauclair?? a fuck ton) and complex characters that have a lot of potential, for either further destruction or redemption. Whether either will occur for these characters in this fic remains to be seen, haha. 
> 
> It tears at me that Regis cared about Dettlaff and killed him anyway, and it also tears at me that he chose to stick by Geralt's decision and do the right thing despite what Dettlaff meant to him. When he fell to his knees in grief...fuck. Hurt a lot to watch, my dudes.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt returns to Corvo Bianco.

**chapter two**

 

Geralt spun a decent enough story to Anna-Henrietta and the rest of the duchy at large. In light of the night’s bloodshed and her sister’s betrayal, the Duchess was all too ready to accept his words at face value and put it all behind her. Geralt could relate. There were still some questions unresolved-- like the depths of Syanna’s plans, particularly in regards to her sister, and what would become of her now that her involvement in the murders had been exposed to all of Toussaint. Nevertheless, after spouting some (not-so) bullshit about cell degradation upon higher vampire death to the duchess and her captain, he quickly made himself scarce, finding Roach where she’d been left behind the castle-- unbothered by the night’s turmoil, as usual-- and rode for Corvo Bianco. He was damn exhausted from his fight with Dettlaff, muscles aching deep to the bone, and his head still pounded from the bizarre trip into Syanna’s fantasy prisonsphere. But beyond the ache, there was relief, too: the beast of Beauclair had been dealt with, the Duchess was satisfied, and the person responsible for it all was now back in her fairytale prison. The mystery was all but over, as was Geralt’s work. Contract fulfilled.

When he arrived at Corvo Bianco’s stables, an unkindness of ravens was scattered on the sprawling branches on a nearby elm tree. He craned his neck upwards, relieved to see them there.

“The Duchess has been appeased. Toussaint believes its Beast is dead. Tell Regis everything’s been taken care of. Ask him to...contact me when he can. Please.”

Beady black eyes stared back at him, and dark wings took flight in a flurry of moving shadow. He watched them until even his witcher eyes could not track them into the night, and then headed inside to the warmth of the hearth and soft, downy sheets.

xXXx

“Time to face the day, Master Geralt.”

Barnabas-Basil woke him with prompt knocking against his bedroom door, bringing the witcher reluctantly into wakefulness. His enhanced body had healed sufficiently during the night, but his healing factor did nothing to reduce the pull of his head to the warm bed, or the quiet pinpricks in his extremities as he stretched. Lingering as he moved about his room to dress, he couldn’t help but wonder if he could ever become accustomed to Corvo Bianco’s luxury-- with its soft beds and crackling fires and spiced food, all things that his hard life on the Path had lacked. Leisurely mornings like these in Toussaint often felt as though he was infringing on a stranger’s manor, a stranger’s life. A softer, different life, so foreign from his own-- giving where his own nights were once harsh at best, gentle instead of knife-edged, easy as breathing instead of hard-fought, hard-won.

He wondered if he would ever get used to it, or if he even wanted to.

Stepping out into the manor’s main hall, dressed in a light linen shirt and deep brown breeches, he saw that Barnabas-Basil was already waiting for him at the doorway of the dining hall, where the scent of roasted, salted pork and fried eggs wafted pleasantly from within. Marlene was really getting the hang of things in the kitchen, a welcome surprise that Geralt took care to appreciate whenever he had the time.

“Master Geralt,” B.B. greeted as he entered the dining space, where a spread of steaming food was already awaiting him. _Hell. A man could really get used to this kind of treatment._ “A note arrived for you this morning via...aviation. Its sender is unknown.”

“Ever gonna break that ‘Master’ habit of yours, B.B.?” he asked, taking a seat and accepting the note Barnabas-Basil passes to him. “Thanks. The sender is a friend.” Unrolling the scrap of parchment, he read the note quickly, both eager and quietly weary. He hoped Dettlaff would prove receptive under Regis’s patient guidance, leave Toussaint while he still could. It would be damn unfortunate for Regis to have to face ending his kin yet a second time.

 _All is well,_ it read initially, in Regis’s tight, ornate scrawl, and the words lifted a burden on Geralt’s heart. _D is resting from the fight you gave him. Will take convincing, but I believe I can broach his better sense, with time. Will visit Corvo Bianco whenever I am able to safely leave him unattended. Unfortunately, there is no foretelling when that may be-- with good fortune, sooner, rather than later._

_Thank you, Geralt, for sparing me of the painful choice I had resolved to make. You saved me from a great loss, greater than you know, and I will not soon forget it. Please take care._

_Until we meet again, my dear friend._

Geralt couldn’t help the small smile that broke across his face as he finished the letter, feeling the concern he’d been carrying drop its heavy weight off his shoulders. Regis had secured Dettlaff, and had hope for his change of heart. That was the best news Geralt could have expected, considering the circumstances. Reading the last paragraph over again, he felt assured twice over for the decision he’d made-- the complex issue of Dettlaff’s guilt aside, he hadn’t truly wanted to kill the higher vampire unless he’d had no choice left, once he found out what Dettlaff meant to Regis. The idea that last night could have ended with Regis killing someone he cared for was one that unsettled Geralt: Regis, despite his species, was a compassionate being, and the act of killing he who’d cared for Regis in his time of need would have gone against everything his friend was. Indeed, Geralt dreaded to imagine how much pain it would have caused Regis, if in the end he’d had to end Dettlaff’s life. The gratitude and disbelief Regis had displayed, when Geralt had provided an alternative to Dettlaff’s death, still struck the witcher now.

No matter how much Dettlaff meant to Regis, he’d still been resolved to do the right thing, even if it cost him dearly. If Geralt had walked away, Regis would have killed Dettlaff, at great personal cost, because despite everything, Regis was moral, damned _decent_ being. Hell, Geralt would wager Regis was the _most_ decent being he’d ever met, higher vampire or no, and Geralt was damn glad his friend hadn’t needed to make such a wretched choice.

“Good news?” B.B. asked, in his typical courteous manner, upon seeing the look on Geralt’s face.

“Yeah. Best news I’ve heard in a while, actually.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, Master Geralt.”

“Mmh. B.B., do you think you could set out some parchment and ink? I’d like to write a letter this morning.”

“Of course, sir. In reply to this morning’s note?”

Geralt looked up. As much as it itched at him, it was best to merely wait for another letter from Regis instead of replying, considering how...busy the vampire must be at the moment. “For my daughter, actually.” His eyes flickered around Corvo Bianco’s impressive high ceilings. “I would like to invite her here. She deserves a bit of rest, and I’d like for her to do so here, if she could.”

Barnabas-Basil’s eyebrows rose above the dark shades of his glasses, a more pronounced expression of surprise than he was likely ever to see from the majordomo. “I see. But of course.”

“Thanks, B.B.” Eyes trailing to the letter Regis sent once more, he hid a smile, and began to put away Marlene’s excellent breakfast with fervor. _With luck,_ he thought, pondering on Regis’s final words, _he’ll be able to wrangle Dettlaff sooner, rather than later._

One could only hope, and Geralt, to his own surprise, found himself doing just that.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt ponders his place in Corvo Bianco, and gets word from Regis.
> 
> It's not good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, back to spread some Witcher love! <3 have some geralt and regis everybody

**chapter three**

 

To say Geralt was pleased when another raven’s note arrived a few days later was a rather embarrassing understatement. He’d been spending the past few days engaging in correspondence with the Duchess’s emissaries-- they were still rebuilding Beauclair and cleaning up the mess that Dettlaff had made-- and he was to return to the palace from some ceremony in a month to commemorate his ‘victory’, or something similarly lavish and dreadful. In the meantime, he was merely...stagnating, waiting for a reply from Ciri, stretching out in Corvo Bianco in a way he’d never before, not even in sharing Yen’s apartment in Vengerberg all those years ago.

The feeling was...bizarre, a strange mix of ease and discomfort: he could take his time on tasks, languish with heated baths and filling meals, but existed with no date in which to expect it to all to end, no building anticipation or anxiety for a contract or confrontation ahead. He felt overfull with energy, with no outlet, surrounded by comfort he had never had to opportunity to indulge in before. Geralt knew he’d soon start climbing the walls for boredom without a contract or two, but for now, he was strangely...content. Not completely sated, with Regis in the wind and with the odd, solitary incompletion of Corvo Bianco that Geralt hoped to fill with Ciri’s presence, but he was certainly rested, in a warm way that Geralt had never claimed to be before.

And with each passing day, he found any desire to return north dwindle. Only lingering thoughts of his friends-- Dandelion, Zoltan, Eskel-- turned his mind to the world outside of Toussaint’s placid hills. This realization was accompanied by no small measure of guilt, when those thoughts were followed by ones of Yen. Of Triss.

It’d been a long time since he’d gone without either of them steering him forward or away. Living with Triss in Vizima had been good, Geralt would admit it. She was kind, sweet, tenacious. But his time with her had been haunted by the shadow of his missing memories, and later tainted by the knowledge that Triss had kept the truth about the Lodge, and more importantly about _Yen,_ from him _._ And then he’d been off chasing Yen all over the damn place only to find her guarded, hurting, and way too damn proud to admit it.

He loved Yen. After all they’d been through, after all of these years with her, he loved her. A part of him would remain devoted to her for as long as he lived. But reuniting with her in White Orchard had been far from the reunion he’d hoped for.

Yen didn’t believe or really care that Geralt had lost all of his memories of her when he’d started up with Triss. She still didn’t trust him, and while this had been disappointing, it came as no real surprise.

Yen loved him, true, but their relationship had always been fraught with tension. The tension could be good, _really_ good, but more often than not, it led to him shutting down and her freezing him out. She cared little for his profession, and he cared littler still for her dismissal of those who didn’t matter to her. He loved her fire and how she teased him, and most of all, he loved her for everything she’d done for Ciri. But when Geralt considered their relationship subtracted of the history and the passion that kept him crawling back, he found himself...hesitant.

What it came down to was that he was never on steady ground when he was with Yen. He was always on edge, dodging barbs and disdain, constantly uncertain of his place in her life and her endeavors. Yennefer of Vengerberg bent to no man, but unfortunately that meant she would not yield to grant him equal footing in _anything._ At least, not until recently, not until that genie.

When the magic tying him to Yen had been broken, Geralt had felt initially unchanged. He had known in his heart that he still loved Yen, and told her as much, and the relief in her eyes when he’d spoke the truth had left Geralt feeling closer to her than ever before. But with time, and distance, Geralt did realize...a difference.

Before, he could push aside the problems he had with their relationship, ignore them in favor of the love and the desire he had for her. It had been all too easy to let the good overwhelm the bad, especially when he was near her, when she let her guard down, when they made love. In retrospect, it was almost as if in the moments he felt doubt about his future with her, something would shift his mind towards forgiveness, towards forgetting. Something warm, something heady, and though Geralt had thought it then to be love, or even destiny, he now realized it to be the touch of magic.

Now, with the genie’s last wish rescinded, his misgivings about their relationship could not be ignored or camouflaged. And those misgivings gave him pause, pause and growing discomfort.

He’d not written to Yen in months, not since he’d responded to her letter about Professor Moreau’s mutation experiments. In truth, he hadn’t much thought to, and when he did, he lacked the whim. That realization alone was fraught with implications Geralt had no desire to parse through.

She likely expected him to return to her soon, after his business with the Duchess was over.

To his own quiet disbelief, Geralt could not find it within himself to want to. He _liked_ living in Toussaint. He liked having the choice and time and freedom to linger, to sprawl, to keep something that was only his. Corvo Bianco provided Geralt something he’d never experienced before. The vineyard was his, legally, but it was also _for_ him, in every aspect. His to be welcomed in, his to return to. A place that he could be himself in, without scorn, without judgement, without pretend. Geralt was deeply disinclined to let it go. Although affection for Yen still stirred within him, the idea of heading back north to start a life with her had him feeling the strangest sense of...loss.

Fuck. She was not going to like this.

...But Yen, all of that, could wait. At least until he was certain Regis’s situation was under control. And after days of waiting, he was finally going to learn how things fared with his friend. With the compounded energy of days of inaction, Geralt tore into Regis’s letter with an untoward intensity, and he unrolled the parchment as if it were a summons to war. Or at least, a half-decent brawl, something to get his blood pumping.

The letter all but promised one. _Geralt,_ it read, Regis’s handwriting somewhat tighter, it seemed, with urgency. _D is contained, but all is not well-- I cannot risk explanation through letter, even through my ravens, for concern of interception. We must meet in person. Go to where we met after our reunion: we will be waiting for you there._

_Please make haste, my friend._

The last line of the letter practically had him sprinting to his rooms to don his gear, and immediately after strapping silver and steel swords upon his back he was off with Roach, pounding across the soft Toussaint soil to Mere-Lachaiselongue.

He arrived just as sunset was painting the green of the forest a darker emerald, and quickly found a tree to tie Roach to after he slid out of his saddle. He didn’t bother attempting entry through the crypt’s door-- if he knew Regis it was probably locked-- so he moved quickly through the cave he’d gone through before when he first visited, its cool, stagnant air enveloping him as he went deeper underground. He listened intently for the sound of Regis’s voice and to his relief found it quickly, and Geralt followed its rhythm through the crypt’s dark halls. Regis’s normally measured and genial tone was sharp with irritation, Geralt noted, and another voice, rougher, echoed through the space in exchange, sounding equally pissed off. Dettlaff was awake and able enough to anger already, it seemed. _Hnnh. Must be losing my touch._

As he entered the lab, Geralt couldn’t help but relax minutely once his eyes landed on the lean stretch of Regis’s hale, unharmed figure. The vampire was standing with his back to the lab’s entry, facing a cot folded against the side of the crypt wall, but as Geralt stepped closer, Regis turned to greet him.

“Geralt,” Regis said. The frustration Geralt had heard mounting in his friend’s voice faded. Eyeing the vampire’s crossed arms and tired eyes, Geralt felt the side of his mouth twitch upwards in an unprompted smile at the man’s welcome.

“Hey, Regis,” he said. “Got your letter.”

“Thank you, for coming so quickly,” Regis said, and his voice was weary. “It wasn’t my intention to worry you, but I’m afraid we have a problem.”

“Is it him?” Geralt asked, gesturing vaguely to where Dettlaff lay on the cot behind Regis. The vampire flared his nostrils in distaste, his dark eyes glittering dangerously in the crypt’s low firelight. He was propped up with his back against the stone for support, and he looked even paler than usual, but otherwise, the higher vampire appeared completely healed. _Unfortunate_ , Geralt thought.

“Witcher,” Dettlaff gritted out. “Come to finish your handiwork?”

“Have I?” Geralt asked, looking to Regis askance. Regis sighed heavily, tossing Dettlaff a look of annoyance that made Geralt’s smile stretch into a smirk. He’d never really seen a pissy Regis before. _Nice_.

“No, he’s not,” Regis said. “But if you continue to remain antagonistic towards him, I will be only happy to watch him run you through with silver until your attitude changes.”

“He took her,” Dettlaff growled, eyes flooding with black. “He tricked me and cost me my vengeance-”

“He _spared_ you,” Regis snapped, mouth hinting at sharp teeth. “You’d do well to remember that, as well.” He turned to Geralt, eyes darker than before. “As unrepentant as he is, Dettlaff isn’t the problem. In his state, he couldn’t harm a butterfly. However...it is this state that relates to why I summoned you here, Geralt.”

“He too talkative? I can help with that,” Geralt said, sneering when Dettlaff bared his teeth at him. Regis huffed once, mouth lifting in brief amusement, before sobering again.

“I’m afraid it’s more serious than that, my friend,” he said. “Toussaint knows that the Beast is dead. Clearly, we both know this is not true, but what matters is that the duchy believed you when you reported Dettlaff’s death, and word has spread.”

“And that’s not a good thing because...”

Regis’s voice was grave. “Because, Geralt, you are not the only being in Toussaint who knows that only a higher vampire can kill another. And my own presence alongside you in Beauclair, although not as widely known, has been noted among certain...circles.”

“And by certain circles, you mean other vampires,” Geralt surmised, frowning. “You’re worried other higher vampires might think you struck the killing blow?”

“I’m afraid they don’t just suspect, Geralt. They’re convinced.” A breath gusted through Regis’s mouth, making his shoulders slump. “Two nights ago, I was out gathering some mandrake root when I was attacked by two bruxa.” Regis quickly held up a hand to interrupt Geralt, who’d immediately tensed with concern and an anger that spoke of swift violence, and continued with his voice somewhere between lecturing and placating. “They were nothing more than I could handle, I assure you, but unfortunately, they would not listen when I attempted to tell the truth.”

“Bruxae don’t usually have the motivation to hunt down people with intent like that, pack creatures or not. Must have been sent.” Regis nodded in agreement, and Geralt swore under his breath. “So you’ve been put on the vampire shitlist.”

“It’s much more serious than that,” Regis said. “The crime of killing another of our kind...there is no higher, for our kin. It is anathema. Sacrilege. And if they have decided my guilt, more will come seeking penance.” Regis leaned against his lab table, kneading his temple with a free hand. “Ironically, some interpretations of our codex would demand Dettlaff’s death to be answered with my own.”

Geralt’s answering words were carved of obsidian, dark and razor sharp. “That’s not happening,” he said. He turned to Dettlaff and clenched his fists once, then opened his fingers slowly to control the fire growing inside him. “You. You’re friends with the lower vampires. Tell them you’re alive, and tell them to _back the hell off._ ”

“Would I, if only I had the strength to walk,” Dettlaff bit out, and Geralt took a threatening step forward.

“Be too happy to drag your worthless hide out of this crypt and dump you at the feet of the nearest alp, I really don’t give a shit-”

“Geralt.” Regis, interrupting as he was wont, dragged his attention away. “Removing Dettlaff from this place would be...inadvisable, at best.”

Geralt crossed his arms, not seeing the problem. Showing that Dettlaff was alive using the vampire himself as proof sounded like the easiest way to solve this mess. “They only have to _see_ him to know you’re innocent, Regis. He doesn’t have to be healthy, he’s just gotta be _alive._ ”

“I am well aware of what needs to be done,” Regis said, somewhat curt, before his voice softened slightly in apology. “But Dettlaff oughtn’t be exposed to the outside world so soon. I fear his actions once within reach of other humans, or even animals, would prove...regrettable.”

“Thought he wasn’t even strong enough to stand,” Geralt grunted, casting Dettlaff a suspicious look.

"It's true that in here, he poses no threat. But...the state of hunger that regeneration stirs within vampires can lend to tremendous acts of strength,” Regis said lowly. The characteristic light in his eyes seemed to dim briefly, in gravity or memory Geralt couldn’t tell. “After such a loss of strength and blood, the need to...restore oneself is nearly overpowering, and the thirst is unparalleled. I’ve no doubt given the opportunity, Dettlaff would attempt to flee. Should he escape even briefly, feed upon a hare or doe, it would give him the strength to run farther, and should he reach a human, well...all said, letting him leave this place is not worth the risk.”

The look on Regis’s face made Geralt fall quiet. _Is that what he went through, after Vilgefortz? Unparalleled thirst?_ Didn’t sound exactly pleasant, especially considering the ‘recovering’ part of Regis’s addiction to blood. Concern grew like bloodmoss in his gut, making him frown, and he watched as Regis seemed to shift slightly, face distant with a quiet form of shame.

Geralt didn’t like it, because it was undeserved. The last thing Regis should ever feel about his accomplishments was shame.

Ignoring the prickling behind his ribcage, Geralt sighed. “So what’s our next plan, then? I grab a bruxa by the ankle and drag her kicking and screaming in here to share the good news?”

His words were enough to lift the burden of regret from Regis’s face, as intended, and the vampire huffed in amusement at Geralt’s imagery. “Yes, well, perhaps not something so...arduous.”

“Gotta plan something,” Geralt said. “Don’t like the idea of just waiting around for something more dangerous than a lower vampire to show up, not when it could put you at risk. And especially not when all it takes is a public glimpse of Junior over there to clear your name.” He fought another smirk when Dettlaff hissed in insult.

“Your concern for my person is appreciated, my friend, but I would not say I’m particularly at risk yet. The bruxa sent after me were more of a...message, than anything. A warning, that my crime was known in the community of my kin. That should I be sighted by another of my kind, I would not be...welcomed.”

“If they attacked you while you were picking mandrake root, then you couldn’t have been far from here,” Geralt argued, shaking his head. “Anything looking for you could easily track your scent to the cemetery. You said it yourself that some higher vampires take a more radical approach to exacting punishment for murder. And you can’t expect to hide until Dettlaff is trustworthy again, that could take years.” He cast a dry look at Dettlaff, who looked the epitome of obstinance. “Or longer.”

Regis creased his eyebrows, looking at Geralt as though he were missing a greater, more pressing point. It was annoying. _Are all vampires this damn stubborn?_ Geralt thought uncharitably. _Or do they all feel invincible?_

“Geralt,” Regis began, almost certainly about to argue for a plan that involved waiting it out despite the risk involved, and Geralt raised a hand to cut him off.

“This isn’t really up for debate, Regis,” he said, voice as hard as iron. “We’ve managed to piss off the only creatures alive that could actually pose a threat to you. I might not know much about vampire culture, but what I do know is revenge, and just how warped people can get going after it.” Again, his eyes flickered to Dettlaff, and the vampire looked away, unearthly green eyes downcast. “I’m not willing to bank on forgiveness here. If even one higher vampire gets it in their head that they want justice, then you’re at risk. And that’s not something I plan on letting stand, period, let alone until this one develops a conscience.”

“I- well,” Regis said, blinking. He looked...flummoxed, by either Geralt’s words or unforgiving tone, and his eyes held Geralt as one might hold something totally foreign, or unprecedented. “If- If you are quite unwilling to wait--”

“ _Quite,_ ” Geralt ground out, crossing his arms.

“Then I suppose...we can go with your plan, Geralt.” Regis’s mouth curled up, just a hair, dark eyes glimmering, and when he spoke his voice was softer than before. “If I were ever uncertain of the regards to which you held our friendship, dear witcher, consider now all doubt expelled,” he said. “Thank you.”

Geralt lifted an eyebrow. “Ever give you cause for doubt, Regis?”

Regis raised both hands, backtracking but smiling at the teasing hint in Geralt’s voice. “Of course not,” the vampire said. A beat, and Regis said, slower, “Not even once.” He blinked and met Geralt’s gaze, eyes warmed with something the witcher couldn't name, and his gut seemed to trip over itself.

“Good,” he grunted, for lack of all else to say. He looked away briefly, unable to meet Regis’s eyes, and resisted the urge to clear his throat. “Mmh...looks like I’ve got a bruxa to go wrangle, then. Gotta say, this a first.”

Regis leaned back on his desk, and the gentleness lurking in the curve of his mouth shifted into amusement. “Monster herding is not a common request in your usual contracts, I assume.”

“Heh. Even it was, I doubt any witcher’d be fool enough to take it.”

“Hmm. I can perhaps think of one.”

“Shut up,” Geralt said, through a smile, and Regis gave him a sharp-toothed grin in return.

“Have you any idea how you want to go about it, then?” Regis asked. “Of course, I will assist you in any way I can, providing it doesn’t remove me long from Dettlaff’s side.”

“Got something of an idea,” Geralt responded, turning his back on Regis towards the crypt’s exit. _Somewhat._ “Need to stop by Corvo Bianco first, whip up a batch of Black Blood. I’ll come back later tonight when I’m done gathering supplies.”

“You needn’t hurry back in order to do this tonight,” Regis started from behind him. “There’s no need-”

Geralt merely turned back to level Regis a look, and Regis closed his mouth, rather quickly.

“Right. I... shall see you in a few hours time, then, Geralt,” he revised, somewhat sheepishly. Smugness and fondness both built up in his chest, forming an obstacle course that Geralt's heart stumbled over.

“Yeah, you will,” Geralt said, and looked away to hide his smirk. “Look after Junior, keep him from doing anything stupid. See you later, Regis.”

Geralt left the crypt quickly, mind already scrounging for ideas. Of all his stupid plans over the years, this had to be the most foolhardy. Capturing a bruxa and releasing her to spread gossip. Why did he feel like Eskel and Lambert never have to deal with weird shit like this? Sighing again, his eyes cut up towards the sky to catch the time-- it was after sundown, perhaps four hours before midnight. It wouldn’t take long to brew the Black Blood. As for method of capture, well. Maybe if he laced some silver into a concussive bomb-- something powerful enough to daze and allow for an opening...

Mind working, he distractedly loosened Roach from her tree and climbed into her saddle, hastening her forward. He started off, moving through tombstones littered across uneven earth towards the edge of the cemetery, and almost didn’t catch it.

But he did.

Geralt stilled, yanking lightly on Roach’s reins to get her to stop. She stamped, either at his change of mind or at the sound drifting through the trees. Air. Rippling. Something was moving through the forest, and it wasn’t the soft Toussaint wind. Or an animal.

It was fast.

Geralt slowly slid back out of the saddle and raised an arm to reach for his silver sword. His eyes flickered around the whispering forest of trees and headstones, and he strained his ears for that rippling sound again. The sound of something flitting at great speed, hair or skin pushing against air fast enough that it split into noise. He sucked in a breath of air through his nose.

Blood. Dead blood.

 _Shit,_ he thought.

The air rippled around him. Again, closer. Another, farther. Closer. His eyes darted from side to side, trying to catch a glimpse of it. It was fast. Faster than he could catch. Damn. He knew exactly what could move that fast.

Turning slightly, he shifted so Roach’s flank covered his back, and spread his arms defensively.

The sound of the wind through a sheet on a clothesline. There. Again. _How the hell-_

Roach whinnied behind him. His eyes flew to his side, and caught a glimpse of flaming red hair. The forest hushed and Geralt caught another movement. Black hair, streaming. A streak of moonlight on pale grey skin.

Shit. There wasn’t just one.

Bruxae hunt in packs.

Geralt grit his teeth, and tensed for a fight.

 

*              *              *

 

Deep inside Mere-Lachaiselongue, Regis stiffened. The distant sonic shriek of a bruxa split into his ears, sharp and unmistakable.

“Geralt,” he breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eh, cliffhanger totally intended
> 
> long chapter, to make up for the long time between postings, but the next chapter will be here soon!
> 
> note: on bruxa, i was a little confused by their description on the witcher wiki page contrasted to their behavior in blood and wine. They're 'higher' vampires, supposedly, and can speak and seduce, but somehow they're animalistic, primal, and completely removed from most social conventions at the same time? weird. i went with the later description in my depiction of them in this fic, so proceed as if bruxa (and alps) are considerably less organized than true higher vampires.


	4. IIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regis talks with Dettlaff, and must rush to save Geralt from a pack of bruxae.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update so soon? Damn, son! Sorry, got excited by the lovely feedback I received, and put a rush order on this chapter. Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Warnings for canon-typical gore and some hurt!Geralt, fam.

**chapter four**

 

_moments earlier_

 

“We do not need him, _va’ther._ ”

Dettlaff’s voice was cold, even disapproving.

Regis closed his eyes, looking away from where Geralt had left them. Somehow, Geralt’s mere presence had made him forget how tired he was. With the witcher gone, exhaustion now fell over his mind like a heavy cloak. He lifted a hand to his brow, fingers kneading at his forehead to forestall an oncoming headache.

“He is not one of us,” Dettlaff continued, despite Regis’s attempt to ignore him. “He does not understand our codex or our ways. He cannot. And after all that we have been through with his kind...I cannot fathom why you would reach out to him.”

Regis’s hand dropped. “All that we have been through?”

His tone was deceptively light as he turned to meet Dettlaff in the eyes, gaze still.

“You refer to the destruction of Beauclair?” he asked softly. “The murder of hundreds of innocents? Or do you instead reference the moment when Geralt cut you down, after you threatened to end us both?”

Dettlaff stared at the compassionless expression on Regis’s face. Something like shame filtered through his eyes, making him look away. It was evidence that Dettlaff wasn’t as inexorable as he appeared, but offered no solace for the consequences for his actions. No consolation for the terrible weight in Regis’s heart, the pain that had lived there ever since the night Beauclair ran red with blood.

“Syanna’s lies steered you to violence, brother,” Regis whispered. Betrayal and guilt and _grief_ stole the volume from his voice, eating away at its strength. “But she did not call for the slaughter of hundreds. She was not the one who sought to kill my dearest friend, and she was not the one who betrayed me and broke our bond.”

Dettlaff squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenched. “Regis,” he said. “ _Va’ther,_ I-”

“You restored me, Dettlaff, and in gratitude, I defended you against all accusation. Worked tirelessly to prove your innocence, because I considered you pack.” Regis’s voice, still quiet, was brittle. “When your actions surpassed all pardon, _Geralt_ \-- that _human_ you so despise-- stayed my hand from ending you altogether. Because he understood our culture enough, he understood _me_ enough, that he knew that if I committed the deed, I would never be able to forgive myself.”

Dettlaff stared at him, saying nothing. Regis felt as if there was a stone in his throat, one that grew heavier with every swallow.

The words, however harsh, had to be said. What Dettlaff had done to Beauclair _hurt_. It scraped along the surface of his heart with lingering steel, leaving it bleeding in horror and remorse. Behind his eyelids still were the faces of dozens, some screaming, some slack, all pale and bloody. A peaceful city, brutalized with an army of claws and teeth. And Dettlaff-- dear, calm, _righteous_ Dettlaff, he who had saved Regis in direst need, responsible. The truth burned his mind with its wrongness, its tragedy, its utter waste and cruelty.

But what hurt too, just as bitterly, was how far he’d been pushed himself. He’d been steeling himself to do it for days, even mired as he was in denial, really ever since he’d learnt of Dettlaff’s first murder. But he’d _hoped..._ foolishly, desperately, selfishly, that there’d be another explanation. A justification. There’d been none, to his anguish, and eventual resolve. Had Geralt not been there to spare him the choice, he would have done the deed. Killed Dettlaff, his friend, his packmate, and damned himself completely. He would have done it, and hated himself for the rest of time, no matter what oft-damned sense of morality guided him.

Dettlaff had pushed him to the murder of his own. Among his many sins, Regis could not forgive him of that one. Not yet. Perhaps not for a long time.

“You _owe_ him, Dettlaff,” Regis managed, voice low. He did not trust its strength with greater volume. “What I myself owe him is beyond my counting, but you owe Geralt a life debt. And for reasons surpassing all expectation and comprehension, his compassion extends ever further. He offers help now, yet again, despite everything his _kind_ has been put through as a result of your actions.”

Dettlaff swallowed harshly. Finally, regret spiked across his high brow. “I... I am sorry for what my actions put you through, brother. I was so... consumed with rage over Rhen-” Dettlaff’s voice snapped, and he gritted his teeth for a moment. “I did not consider the toll it would bring upon you. I should have. I never- I would never truly have harmed you, not permanently. You are pack. I only- I only wanted you to step aside.”

“If you truly considered us _va’rhen_ you should have come to me sooner,” Regis said, pained. “The moment you needed help, you should have told me.”

Dettlaff shook his head, but it did not matter now. None of it did. It only hurt. There was a silence, and Dettlaff looked up again.

“Regardless of whatever... goodwill that witcher intends...I cannot see how he could possibly assist us. Surely there are others, ones who could clear the mark upon your name?”

Regis sighed. “Orianna sends away my ravens when I attempt to contact her. I cannot blame her. If it were known that she granted me any audience, were associated with me in any way, she would face consequences herself.”

Dettlaff dipped his head. “I see.” He let out a slow exhale, lifting a hand before his face and deliberately making a fist. “When I am able, we need only go to her estate. She could hardly call you murderer with myself standing beside you, perfectly whole.”

Regis moved into the chair placed next to his lab table, sitting down and bowing his head. “Mm. Indeed.” He cast Dettlaff a downturned eye. “Providing your mission to bleed Beauclair dry has reached its true terminus.”

“I would wash my hands of all humankind, if I could,” Dettlaff said bitterly. “If I saw not a one in the next millennia, I would be content. They are deceitful, cruel creatures. Without capacity for generosity, or kindness...Without _love._ Manipulative, _vile--_ ” Dettlaff’s ashen soft voice began to transform into something coarse and black, scalding with hatred. Regis watched him warily, and catching himself, the other vampire sucked in a sharp breath. Rage drained from his features, and he jerked his head once, as though clearing it of the wildness that had clawed its way into his thoughts. The black in his scleras faded, leaving only white and rings of icy green, and Regis silently released a breath.

“They cannot be trusted, _va’ther_ ,” Dettlaff finished. His eyes were unfocused, hollow. “Which is why you should tell the witcher to leave our affairs in peace. His kind breeds nothing but suffering...upon itself and upon others.”

“His name,” Regis said, with both poise and bristle, “-is Geralt. And he is not merely a human. He is a witcher, a man who walks between the world of humans and the world of monsters, and exists fully in neither. Both realms reject and fear him, and yet, he fights for both, wherever the lesser evil lies. He remains one of the kindest, noblest beings I know, and I trust him. Implicitly, and without reservation.”

Dettlaff looked at Regis, and his gaze could only be described as pitying. “Then you are a fool,” he said quietly, and Regis closed his eyes.

“Perhaps, in many things,” Regis said, head bent. “But not in my trust in Geralt.”

His eyes opened to find Dettlaff focused on him, gaze penetrating, almost suspicious. Before he could ponder why, a distant sound had him shooting upright in his chair, spine freezing to ice.

The sound was a shriek Regis could not possibly mistake. It ripped through the air with piercing frequency, shrill with a rage all too familiar.

“ _Geralt._ ”

He bolted to his feet, heart clenched as if a fist had clutched it tight. Few beings could put up a proper fight against a bruxa, and fewer still frequented Mere-Lachaiselounge in the night hours. _Geralt._

“It appears your witcher has found himself in trouble yet again, _va’ther_. He appears to attract it, like the dead to decay.”

“ _Dettlaff.”_ Regis stepped forward, eyes wide. He felt his nails elongate, instincts reacting to threat. “Can you call them off? Are you capable?”

Dettlaff narrowed his eyes. “With my strength as it is...not from such a distance, no.”

“Could you, were you at a closer range?” Regis pressed, stepping forward. His words rattled in their speed, near frantic.

Coal dark brows furrowed. “You would chance my escape,” Dettlaff said flatly. “When before, you would rather have risked waiting instead?” His green eyes flickered into slits. “Just what is this witcher to you, brother?”

Regis looked at him, and felt something spark and kindle in his chest, hot and red and _angry._ The urgency on his face flickered into something dark, heated.

“He is my _friend,_ ” Regis said. A shadow had fallen over his voice, quiet, indistinct. Dangerous. “A very dear and loyal friend who spared you out of nothing but the desire to do good and to reduce my suffering. If he is in danger, there is nothing I will not do to aid him, Dettlaff. I am going to help him, regardless, but will you assist me or won’t you?”

There was a split moment where Dettlaff looked at him, as if measuring the consequences of refusing him, but lips flattened beneath flared nostrils. “Very well,” he gritted out, and no sooner had he said it then Regis had lunged forward, grabbing his arm, and they were smoke. They hurtled through the crypt tunnels outward, barrelling into the Toussaint night. They halted and Regis became corporeal, color flooding his senses as he strained for audible sign of the bruxa again. He heard nothing but the rush of the forest, and his hands trembled with adrenaline and dread.

_Where are you, Geralt?_

Regis sucked in a breath through his nose and nearly stumbled. Blood. Fresh, rich, tinged with a spark of magic that Regis could only imagine crackled on the tongue. He would recognize the scent of witcher blood anywhere. Panic sliding across his heart, he flitted forward through the night, Dettlaff pursuing haltingly behind him, and he picked up the sound of low breathing, huffing in the night. The sound of a heartbeat, thudding hard and slow. He looked and saw Roach, riderless, whinnying frantically upon a hill, and darted to its peak.

There he looked down, and time suspended.

Two bruxae lay slain and in pieces at the base of the hill, their dead, dark blood splattered against worn tombstones. Another keened out its death throes, purple lips rasping through the gaping maw in its chest where it had been slit open, hip to shoulder.

Two more still stood in the grass, crowded near a wood oak. One pinned a heavy shoulder to the side of a tree in a brace, its razor-sharp mouth stretched in a feral grin. A moonlit silver sword lay stained at her clawed feet. And the other...

The other held a broad body to the bulk of the tree’s trunk with her own, a twisted mirror image of lovers pressed together. Taloned fingers were spread across a bone-pale face, covering a mouth and forcing its jaw aside to bare the flesh of a neck. Fresh blood seeped through collar and armor down a slack arm, and the bruxa feeding had turned to see them, having heard them come.

Her chin dripped with scarlet.

Geralt’s eyes were closed.

Control strained and snapped and was set ablaze.

Regis lunged.

The bruxa holding Geralt, whose lips were stained with his blood, fell first beneath his claws. Talons digging into the meat of her shoulder, he threw her bodily from Geralt across the field. The bruxa beside him shrieked, sonic waves stabbing into his ears and sending him briefly stumbling, and he snarled back with a rage that was incandescent.

 _Blood._ Something animal hissed through his madness, making his throat _ache_.

 _Geralt,_ something else snarled within him, and it filled his body with blistering fire. _Geralt’s blood-_

Hatred scorched every cell in his body, burning away all but wildfire fury, and he threw himself at the other bruxa. She made to slip away but he was far faster, and he buried his claws into her skull to wrench her head back. Snarling, he sank his teeth into her neck, foul dead blood flooding his mouth. She shrieked and slashed at his arms, but he didn’t stop, fangs tearing through flesh until they struck the firm bone of her spine.

The bruxa’s thick, fetid blood did nothing to calm the burn of thirst or his anger, and he dropped her lifeless body as she fell limp. Tainted crimson dripping from his teeth, he turned and set his sights on the other, who had gotten to her feet.

“ _Murderer,_ ” she hissed, voice sleek and sharp. Regis growled, taking a step forward, intent on dragging her heart from her cavernous ribs and crushing it to pulp.

“ _Va’ther,_ ” a voice said, making him still. His head snapped to the side, and he saw pack. Dettlaff. He was untransformed, face flat and human, green eyes steady and calm.

He turned back to the bruxa, sucking air through his elongated nose, and smelled that _scent,_ that _blood--_ He wanted to kill her _,_ Geralt’s blood _, how dare, how dare-_

“Regis,” Dettlaff warned, gaze fixed on the bruxa. Regis canted his head, and struggled to regain control against warring tides of vengeance and hunger so desperate they stole his thoughts _._

“Tell what sent you that I yet live,” he heard Dettlaff say. His subdued voice was hypnotic, gentle. “No crime has been committed here.”

The bruxa, dark eyes flickering with blankness, hissed uneasily. Her body twitched in the moonlight, thin limbs trembling.

“Begone from here,” Dettlaff said. She twitched, with greater violence, and jerked her gaze to Regis, who tensed like a drawn bow.

“Murderer,” she said. Her claws spasmed. “ _Traitor.”_

“ _Go,_ ” Dettlaff growled, louder now, and she flinched. She hesitated, just a moment more, before vanishing in a mirage of smoke. The moment she left something in Regis broke apart, animal rage falling back into the cage of his control. The thirst faded, strangled with chains of his own making.

_Focus. Breathe._

He sucked down air, and the scent of blood mingled with magic hit the back of his throat like a punch.

_Geralt._

He whirled and ran. Geralt lay limp at the base of the tree, covered in blood. The wound at his neck bled sluggishly, and Regis heard the slow thudding of the witcher’s heart with a dread made his heart plummet in fear. _Gods above and below, Geralt-_

He heard Dettlaff move behind him and resisted the urge to snarl.

“Stay back!” he cried, and could not help the desperate thread in his voice. “Do not come closer.”

“I will not-”

“ _Stay. Back,_ ” he said through his teeth, and was met with silence. His hands moved about his person, casting off his satchel and unbuttoning his vest to reach for the worn cotton of his shirt. With a rip, he severs a great swath of cloth from halfway down, right at his hip. Pushing aside Geralt’s collar, which was by now soaked with blood, he wound cloth tightly around the witcher’s neck to staunch the blood flow.

Geralt’s eyelids twitched but didn’t open. A quiet groan echoed from the witcher’s throat.

“Nghh,” Geralt said, and Regis hushed him.

“Be still, Geralt,” he whispered quickly, voice low. He finished his work at the witcher’s neck, frowning as the cloth bloomed all too quickly with red. “You were attacked, but the bruxae are gone. You will be alright, my friend.”

Geralt groaned again, throat sounding hoarse. “R...Regis.”

“Yes, it’s me, Geralt,” Regis said, heart beating like a hummingbird. His hand found the witcher’s shoulder, striving for reassurance but seeking to find it as well. Cat yellow eyes fluttered open, dazed with pain, and focused on him. Regis could not deny the relief that flooded him to see them again. For a moment, he had so feared...

“Mmmh.” Geralt shifted, attempting to straighten up against the broad trunk behind him, and his face creased in a wince. “Shit....getting too old for this...”

Regis felt a chuckle force itself through his lips, painfully grateful. “In all fairness, there _were_ five of them. Three of which that you handled quite well.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Geralt grunted, bloody glove moving to prod his chest only for him to hiss suddenly, a sharp intake of breath. “No excuse.”

"Very well. You're far too old then, to be fighting monsters like this, witcher. You should retire before you dislocate a hip.”

"F-Fuck you."

"At this rate, you'll soon need help getting to the water closet."

"Fuck _off._ " Geralt forced the words through a laugh that made him cough hard, blood welling at his bottom lip. Regis only reached for him, helping drag the witcher to his feet. Halfway there, Geralt’s knees buckled, making the witcher swear hoarsely in his ear.

“Geralt, we must get you somewhere safe, away from here” Regis said, anxiety hiding beneath his doctor’s pragmatism. “You must push through the pain until we find somewhere you can rest.”

“Trying,” Geralt replied through a clenched jaw. “Broken ribs, blood loss. Bad combination.”

Regis knew. Grip on the witcher tightening, he lifted a free hand to his mouth and let out a sharp whistle. Roach huffed and stamped down the hill, hoofing directly in front of them, and Regis reached out for her reins to tug the horse closer, close enough that Geralt could steady himself on her flank. Geralt sucked in a breath that Regis could hear grate against shards of rib, and wobbled as he attempted to climb into the saddle.

“This isn’t going to work, you won’t remain conscious to Corvo Bianco,” Regis muttered. “I must go with you.”

 _And leave here._ His eyes flickered from Geralt to Dettlaff, who had been watching them both in silence. He stared for a moment, uncertain. Would Dettlaff run? Would the morning find Regis in Corvo Bianco with news of more deaths?

Dettlaff looked away and sighed. “Go,” he said. “I will be here. I am not yet ready to leave this place.” Verdigris eyes flickered to Geralt, and back to Regis, and there was something in them that Regis could not decipher. Something almost like knowing. “Send your ravens for me, when you are able. I will wait for them.”

Regis felt relief swell over him, gratitude making his throat thick. “As soon as I am able,” Regis said, and Dettlaff nodded. His eyes flickered to Geralt one more time, and in a stir of dark smoke, he was gone.

“...Went a little better than expected,” Geralt said, his flat voice sliding around. His gold eyes were glazed with pain, and Regis knew it would not be long before the man fell unconscious. He looked at Geralt and then at Roach, and sighed.

“Geralt, I will help you into Roach’s saddle, but you must ride backwards.”

“...Say again?” Geralt asked, blinking lazily, listing in Regis’s hold.

“You must face away from the reins, Geralt. I will ride behind you, facing the front.”

Geralt grunted, turning to squint confusedly at Regis. “Why-”

“We don’t have time to argue this, Geralt. You are too tall for me to look over to direct Roach forward if I were behind you, and should you ride behind, I cannot keep you from sliding off should you pass out-”

“M’not gonna pass out,” Geralt mumbled, and Regis rolled his eyes. He reached forward, grabbing the saddlehorn, and with a jerk, wrenched it from the saddle to make room.

“Get on the damned horse, Geralt,” Regis said, and used his strength to physically push Geralt upwards astride the horse.

“Language, R'gis,” Geralt muttered. His eyes fell at half mast as he swayed upright. Quickly, before the witcher could slump and lose his balance, Regis put a foot in a stirrup and swung himself onto the seat, somewhat uncomfortably pressed into the cantle. The saddle had hardly enough room for two grown men, but it would do. He situated his legs in the stirrups, thighs pressing Geralt’s beneath his to pin them to Roach’s side for stability should he faint, and then reached around Geralt’s body for the reins.

It was an effort. “Lean forwards, Geralt,” Regis advised. “It will make it easier for us both.”

“Ehhh. Fine,” Geralt said, and with barely a moment’s hesitation he slumped fully against Regis’s chest. Geralt was warm and heavy against him, and so close that Regis could feel the witcher’s heartbeat through his jerkin. His face fell against Regis’s left shoulder, hot, labored breath huffing up Regis’s neck, and he was briefly overwhelmed with the scent of Geralt-- his lightning sparked blood, yes, but also the witcher’s natural scent, dirt and leather and the distant new richness of Corvo Bianco’s wine, and as always, the faintest hint of sage.

"M'be right," Geralt rumbled somewhat grumpily against his shoulder. "Feelin' pretty tired, R'gis."

"Yes, well, you will find than on most matters, I usually am."

"Nnnh. Yeah. Usually," Geralt hummed. His deep voice was muted, and something in his Rivian accent shifted, just barely, to something resembling a brogue. Regis felt his heart shift in fondness, and closing his eyes briefly at the feeling of Geralt breathing against him, his heartbeat steady but slowing as the man faded from alertness.

Then Regis yanked at Roach’s reins, and they were off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, yeah. Dettlaff can smell something fishy between those two losers, for damn sure. Also, Regis feels sooo much.
> 
> Also, apparently Geralt assumes a Rivian accent (or Americanish) because it makes the 'of Rivia' part of his name be less suspicious (and bc he was knighted, and then quickly un-knighted by the ruler of Rivia), but apparently he was born and grew up in Kaedwen (around where Kaer Morhen is). In the Witcher games, Kaedweni accents are Irish. So I liked the idea of Geralt, under extreme duress or tiredness, assuming a bit of a Kaedweni brogue as his original accent filters through a bit.
> 
> Note: So I made up some words from a native vampiric language that Regis and Dettlaff use here. I'm dying for more detailed lore or stories about Higher Vampire culture; I mean, they're an entire species, surely they have their own language and cultural norms? 
> 
> Also, I'm not operating in this fic as though vampires are like, reanimated dead, or even 'undead'. I give bruxae 'dead blood' because I'm assuming it smells like the blood of well, dead people, but not because I think Higher Vampires like Regis don't have hearts or pump blood? I mean, surely if they sleep, drink, and experience addiction, they aren't undead? And can experience physical reactions to emotions and get headaches or whatever? Eh, what I'm saying is that aside from blood drinking, immortality, and super strength, I'm proceeding as if most vampires experience most biological processes as humans do. Just makes things easier to write, lol.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter!


End file.
